A Note for E-mail Followers

There are a few of you who "Follow by E-mail", and receive an e-mail with new postings.  When you receive these, they look better if you actually go to the blog and read them, rather than read them from the e-mail, where they look a little screwy.  I'm not trying to trick you into going to the blog, I'm just stating the facts.

To go straight to the blog from the e-mail, just click on the name of the post, and it will take you there.  And, by the way, I hope you realize that any word in the blog that is in red type is actually a link, and will take you to another page where you can learn more interesting things. (Except in this case, where the word red is NOT a link.  Geez. This is confusing isn't it?)

If you aren't following by e-mail, then you can by clicking on the box to the right.  (See it?  Right over there on the side bar >>>>>>>... you can't miss it.)  NO, NO, not the "Followers" area, but the "Follow by E-mail" box.

That last sentence WAS a trick to get more E-mail followers.

Learning the Djembe

About 15 years ago, a young man in our local church body returned from a summer mission trip with a djembe, an African drum held between the knees, producing different tones depending on how you hit the head.  He played the drum softly, accompanying certain songs during worship.  Very cool, I thought to myself.

djembe

I had studied percussion for two brief years while in the 5^th and 6^th grades.  When my family moved out of state the next year, I speculated that the adjustment to the new school would take my full attention, and elected not to continue.  It was one of those decisions I would regret.  I had also discontinued the study of the saxophone after a month in the 4^th grade, an equally poor decision.  That was the extent of my music training.

A couple of years ago I decided that the djembe may be my ticket to re-entering music training in middle age.  It seemed as though it would be relatively easy to learn some rhythms and have fun with it.  I began to do some research as to what I needed to get.  When my wife and kids pooled their money and gave me a card at Christmas which read “for a djembe”, there was no turning back, and we bought one from our local music store.

One day while searching the internet, I stumbled onto the site of a young man from Singapore.  Shawn Kok, among other things, has put together videos teaching the use of the djembe to accompany small group worship.  His sweet spirit immediately gripped my attention, and I determined to follow his course of instruction to learn to play.  Here's one of the first videos I watched.

Shawn does not play the djembe in the traditional African way.  Instead, he plays it using methods that a drummer would use to play a traditional set of drums.  The rhythms are mostly built on 1/16^th notes.  This style, while not authentic to the djembe, suited my history with percussion and my musical tastes well.  I found the rhythms familiar and pleasant to my ear.

Shawn Kok

The depth of Shawn’s instruction made learning the rhythms a possibility even for this old dog, as long as I practiced.  I was especially pleased when I mastered a particularly difficult pattern. 

Then he presented one that brought my progression to a halt.  Not only was it difficult to get my hands to just play the beat, but the speed at which Shawn played it made my head spin.  I would play it over and over, night after night.  The progress was painfully slow. 

While looking at some of the comments from users of Shawn’s site, I found the question “how long does it take to master all of these beats”.  Shawn replied “a few months to a year, with regular practice.”  He added the comment “its just muscle memory”.

Muscle memory is a term for the process by which we learn certain skills by repetition.  Any musician or athlete is familiar with it.  It starts with consciously working through a task, in this case, playing a rhythm on a drum.  At first it must be performed very slowly, and in my case, with the aid of written music.  With each practice session, an attempt is made to increase the speed, with many mistakes accompanying the effort.  Eventually, I found that I was playing the beats much faster than I could read the music.

Then gradually, you find yourself playing the rhythm without consciously thinking about the progression of the beat.  It just begins to flow out.  The reason is that the brain has committed the beat to memory somewhere in its recesses.  At that point, the playing becomes almost effortless, and you can begin to focus on other things, such as nuances in the beat, or perhaps other music being played around you.  Eventually you learn to accompany, or so I hope.

Muscle memory is an amazing thing to me.  It is the same process that allows us to type, to ride a bike, or drive a car without much thought.  The process is the same as “wax on… wax off” from Karate Kid (the original).  Mr. Miyagi does muscle training with the unsuspecting Daniel by having him wax cars.  By the end of the task, Daniel is well on his way to responding to punches without putting much thought into it.

The thing that is most intriguing is how it seems to resemble the life of the Christian.

When we begin our walk with The Lord, we follow certain steps.  We learn the basics, and attempt to implement what we learn.  This process is difficult.  We make many mistakes.  Our hands do not do what our mind tells them to do.  Our mouth does not speak that which we know it should.  Our mind does not think the way we desire for it to think.  This is all very frustrating and full of our own effort.  But it is the path we all take.  At some point, we become frustrated with this approach.

It is AFTER this frustration that the door is open for a change to take place.  Perhaps not all at once, but at certain times, we find that our hands do what we desire for them to do.  Our voice speaks that which we know it should speak.  Our mind thinks on those things it should think.  However, it does not come out of a great effort on our part, rather it comes from another source.  It comes from the indwelling Christ.  At that point, it just flows out, just as those drum rhythms flow.

It is vital to understand the change which must take place.  The analogy of learning the djembe only works to a degree.  We are not talking about practicing the “Christian life” until it becomes second nature.  This isn’t a diligence to keep at it until we finally become master over our own flesh by training and repetition. 

But there is one thing that must be repeated over and over.  That one thing is a constant reminding that I am totally dependent on The Lord to live any semblance of a godly life. No amount of practice will train my own flesh to live godly.  Instead, MY life must be replaced by HIS life.   John 1:14 says “And the Word became flesh”.  John spoke that of Christ.  He was the embodiment of the Written Word of God. He walked perfectly in the ways of God while here on earth in bodily form.  It only follows that as we allow Christ to live in us, in our bodily form, the fruit of that will be, at least in part, men and women living according to that same Word of God. 

I don’t know where my djembe playing will lead. But I do know this. After getting through the early stages, and as my hands begin to do things they couldn’t before, I almost become a spectator to the music, and think to myself “I can’t believe I once found this so difficult.”

First appeared in the August, 2010 edition of the Manna. http://readthemanna.org

Story Subjects

I was at someone's home, and in the midst of showing me something peculiar about the house, the person jokingly said "You aren't going to write a story about me are you?"

Hmmm.

I did not question the person about the meaning of the comment.  But I wondered if they meant that sometimes I may be insensitive to the people I make part of my writing, who may not want to be the subject of a story.  I make every effort not to put anyone in a bad light.  True, sometimes our kids get a raw deal, but normally I paint myself as the person in need of learning something. 

So for the record, I will keep this concern in mind.  And my apologies to the person who, despite their protests, for the first time became the subject of a story.

The Situations You Stumble Into

Today I went to a customer's home to repair a dripping faucet which I had supposedly repaired 6 months ago.  This is why I don't like plumbing.

In the six months since I was there last, the wife found out she has ovarian cancer.  Her husband shared a few of the details with me as I worked.  She was very sick, but he didn't tell me the prognosis.

Our area has had an influx of retired couples, as it is economically advantageous to retire here.  So while this couple has family, they don't live nearby.  All I could think about was what life would be like for this older man if his wife passes.

It made me wish we lived closer to the beach so I could keep an eye on the couple.  As sad as the situation is, and could become, I count it a privilege to be a small part of their world, and wonder if there may be something I can do down the road.

It made me appreciate the situations I stumble into as a result of just going to work.

Sad Songs...Late for the Sky

Don't really have anything to add to this song.  It speaks for itself.  The end of a relationship.  Ugh.  If I think of anything else to add, I will.

Oddly enough, the car on the album cover is either a '52 or '53 Chevy.  See First Car blog entry.

O.K..... I thought of a comment.  One may make the assumption that I like these sad songs because back in the day,  I enjoyed listening to songs such as this which spoke to a familiar situation, a "let's share our sorrows together" kind of thing.  That may be true to a degree, but there something that makes such a song attractive now. Commenter "blt" alluded to this idea.  The singer/songwriter makes you feel what he is feeling.  And whether you have experienced what he has or not, you understand what he went through.  That kind of connection makes you feel alive.

"Late for the Sky"

Jackson Browne

1974

All the words had all been spoken,
Somehow the feeling still wasn't right
And still we continued on through the night.
Tracing our steps from the beginning,
Until they vanished into the air
Trying to understand how our lives had led us there.
Looking hard into your eyes
There was nobody I'd ever known
Such an empty surprise
To feel so alone.

Now, for me, some words come easy
But I know that they don't mean that much
Compared with the things that are said when lovers touch.
You never knew what I loved in you
I don't know what you loved in me.
Maybe the picture of somebody you were hoping I might be.

Awake again, I can't pretend
That I know I'm alone,
And close to the end
Of the feeling we've known.
How long have I been sleeping?
How long have I been drifting along through the night?
How long have I been dreaming I could make it right,
If I closed my eyes and tried with all my might,
To be the one you need?

Awake again, I can't pretend
That I know I'm alone,
And close to the end
Of the feeling we've known.
How long have I been sleeping?
How long have I been drifting along through the night?
How long have I been running for that morning flight
Through the whispered promises, and the changing light
Of the bed where we both lie,
Late for the sky.

Fine Young Cannibals

Note: Over 55?  Don't waste your time with this.

You may be wondering why I put songs in this blog. Whether a song is good or not is simply a matter of opinion, and I'm just another guy offering his.  You can Google any song you want and see what people have to say about it.  So what's the point of me doing it here?  There IS no point.  It's just plain fun to do it, because I am continually amazed and in awe of anyone who can make music such as this.  And besides, if you use Google, you don't get to read my brief yet fascinating comments.

On a more serious note, I do have another motivation... young people.  Young people need to be exposed to older music.  Oh, and there's old people.  Old people need to be exposed to old music that isn't as old as they are, but which is too new for them to have listened to.  And then, once I get these two groups of people reading this blog, I can expose them to all sorts of material to enrich their lives.


To create a great, memorable song, follow these steps:

1. Come up with a creative name for your band.
2. Find a lead singer with a voice that sounds like no other on earth.
3. Incorporate nonsense words into the lyrics.
4. Write about lost love, or women in general.

Good Thing

by Fine Young Cannibals
1988

The one good thing in my life
Has gone away I don't know why
She's gone away I don't know where
Somewhere I can't follow her

The one good thing didn't stay too long
My back was turned and she was gone

Good thing where have you gone
Good thing you've been gone too long
Hey hey hey woo hoo hoo

People say I should forget
There's plenty more don't get upset
People say she's doin' fine
Mutual friends I see sometime

That's not what I want to hear
I want to hear she wants me near

Good thing where have you gone
Good thing you've been gone too long
Hey hey hey woo hoo hoo

Then one day she came back
I was so happy that I didn't ask
Morning came into my room
Caught me dreaming like a fool

Good thing where have you gone
Good thing you've been gone too long
Hey hey hey woo hoo hoo

Its Not Just a Job

I work with a lot of different people on a lot of different jobs.  Like any work, there is a tendency to set your sights on just getting the job completed.  I constantly try to remind myself to enjoy the moment... there's more to the work than just getting it done.  And then occasionally, something unusual, even extraordinary, will occur, making the job less about work, and more about life.

Out of the blue, an old friend contacted me.  Her vacation home had suffered water damage over the winter.  The roof had already been repaired, and the damage inside remained.  She knew I did this sort of work, and wondered if I may be able to work on the home or at least point her in the right direction.

My first inclination was to offer her advice only, for a variety of reasons, one of which was the fact she had been more than a friend in our college years.  We parted ways amiably, but hadn’t really spoken in depth since then.  I was hesitant to even open that door.

I made a fact finding trip to the house on a day she wasn't there.  Being in the home had the effect I anticipated.  While surveying the property, a flood of memories smacked me in the face.  I wasn't sure at all how to proceed.

Accompanied by my youngest daughter, we met my friend at the house one Saturday.  We talked about the repairs, and as the details of the job unfolded, it became apparent that while I was hesitant to step into this situation, it seemed I was the right person to do the work.

The visits to the house and the subsequent conversations prompted some contemplation regarding our past.  It was a process I foresaw having to walk through, and elected to press on despite some discomfort. The thought that this was being orchestrated for us by God Himself was hard to shake.

The following Sunday morning our worship leader opened with the song “It is Well with My Soul”.  As I sang the song, the present situation immediately came to mind.  I knew I was midstream of a healing taking place, and thought “This is well with my soul.  This is all good.” 

But then those churchy goose bumps were interrupted.  Was I singing this sincerely?  The answer came quickly - NO.  So I turned the song into a prayer, and asked "Lord, make this situation more well with my soul.”

I sensed a desire to talk to someone.  Two of my best friends were out of town together, ministering at a summer church camp.  Some help THEY were in my hour of need.  So I sent off a text to another friend, Joe.  He was busy, but would call later.

About this time, I received an e-mail from my friend Bill.  He forwarded a story about dealing with the past.  The timing was uncanny and I shot a response back to him mentioning this.  We discovered a common bond, and thought it prudent to schedule a time to meet for coffee.

The day I started the job, I could tell that something was different already.  The only thing that smacked me in the face was the desire to get it done in time for my friend’s vacation.  Around day four the reality of the magnitude had set in, so I asked my dad to help me.  We spent some quality time together.  I even snapped at him a few times and had to apologize.  It was beautiful.

Bill and I met for our scheduled coffee.  We had one of those heart to heart talks that they say men are supposed to have, but rarely do.  But this came about very naturally, out of a mutual desire to share what light we had which may have applied to our situations.  He told me he would be praying for me, and I believed him.

A few days later, Joe called me, and I sat out on the step while we talked and my dad continued slaving away in the house.  We exchanged stories of similar events in our lives, another one of those heart-to-hearts that men are told to have.  But no one had to tell us.  We connected in a way we never had before. 

There were some peculiar occurrences on the job that didn’t involve people at all.  The summer so far had been unusually dry.  The night before we tore out the old damaged ceiling in the bedroom, we had a horrific rain storm.  As we removed the ceiling, we found some soaked insulation.  It didn’t take long to trace the leak to a window above the roof, which was easily fixed.  The timing of the rain was perfect.  A day or two later, and new drywall would have gotten damaged by water.

A day or two later another horrific storm hit the area.  I was half way home and for some crazy reason thought of the cook top in the kitchen.  We had covered the top with plastic and a rug to protect it while tearing out the ceiling.  It had push button controls, but I couldn’t recall where they were.  I wondered if there was a chance we could have inadvertently turned on one of the burners.

Of course, I returned to the job.  When I arrived, the storm was directly over the house.  I found the cook top to be off, but as I was removing the plastic and rug, I heard a dripping sound.  Coincidentally, water was coming in a window above the kitchen in the same manner as the first leak we had discovered.  Again, the timing was outrageously perfect, as we were about to install new drywall.

My friend arrived with her family the night before my last day of work.  That Saturday we talked as I finished up with some painting and miscellaneous jobs.  I met her husband for the first time face to face. It was a perfect ending to one story, the perfect beginning to another.

As is the case with many so called routines in life, this wasn’t just a job.  God’s fingerprints were all over it.  I would suggest that it was nothing less than a walking out of Acts 2:42.  “And they were continually devoting themselves to the apostles' teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer.”  The “they” in this case was a whole cast of people I encountered along the way.

In that light, throughout that five week period, I believe it is probable that The Lord brought to mind teaching we had all been exposed to throughout our lives to guide us through.  We effortlessly devoted ourselves to intimate fellowship with each other.  Without the “breaking of bread” - the actual work of Christ Himself represented by that - the work and interactions would have been nothing more than a chore, perhaps an inconvenient one fraught with pitfalls.  And naturally,  we held this whole situation before The Lord in prayer as it unfolded.

And the fruit of this so-called “continual devotion” reminiscent of the Book of Acts?  As in any gathering of believers, it brought new life.  The relationship between my old friend and I was re-defined.  New relationships were birthed.  New life was breathed into other relationships in a way that only a sharing of The Life of Christ can.  We were reminded again of His hand in our lives.  And as an added bonus, an old house got restored.

This story first appeared in the October, 2010 edition of the Manna. http://readthemanna.org

Tracy's Bears

After graduating from the University of Delaware in February of 1983, I enlisted in the Army for a period of two years in the Delayed Entry Program, which meant that I didn't report for duty until November of that year.  In the interim I worked in Rehoboth Beach, DE.  I asked a coworker, who had been in the Army, about good places to be assigned.  He said there were many nice Army Posts, just don't get assigned to Fort Hood, TX.  He said it was in the middle of nowhere.

After Basic and Advanced training at Fort Jackson, SC, I was assigned to the middle of nowhere.  Fortunately, I met a small group of people who made Fort Hood an oasis in the middle of a desert.  Joe - also a graduate of the U of D, and a native of Delaware -  became a life-long best friend.  Tracy was from the other side of the country - San Luis Obispo, CA, but we took her in despite that fact.  We constantly busied ourselves with such things as biking, running 10Ks, swimming, and going down to Austin once in a while, where we listened to live music and ate frozen yogurt.

While digging through the boxes of things from my folk's house (see "What you remember"), I found these two drawings which I had stored there in 1987.  When I first pulled them out, I couldn't recall exactly who the artist was, but upon seeing the initials, remembered that Tracy drew them for me while we were at Fort Hood.

I scanned the pictures and sent them off in an e-mail.  She was appreciative, and told me she had lost her portfolio of artwork over the years in the midst of moving.  She asked if I would mind mailing them to her, which I was happy to do.


Tracy has a framing business - Door 2 Door Frames -  in California.  I told her that my only condition of returning the pictures was that she display the one in a prominent place (the cowboy bear with my name), and when anyone asked, she is to tell them what a great person I am for being such a good friend and for returning her long lost artwork.  She indicated she would, although I have my doubts.

What you remember

For years my folks have been reminding me that I had some stuff stored in their attic from before Tina and I got married.  One of the items was a microscope which I knew my kids would enjoy using.  So on a Saturday, after noticing the reminder on my desk for the umpteenth time, I gathered up the boys and headed to my parents' home.

We gathered up most of the boxes, leaving only a couple containing old college text books and notebooks.  I had no immediate use for those, so I left them.  We packed the rest in our van and headed home.

One of the items I had saved was a chemistry set I received as a Christmas gift, probably around the year 1974 when I was 13 years of age.  I showed the boys, and tossed most of it in the trash.  A little rocket caught my eye, and I kept it out, knowing the boys would enjoy it.

The following day, my boys asked about the rocket, and if we could set it off.  We have built model rockets together that use engines.  This was not one of those.  It is a simple body with a base, and appropriate for a chemistry set, is fueled by the reaction of vinegar and baking soda.  Or so I recalled.

We gathered up the necessary materials and took them outside.  We found a piece of wood that would serve as the launch pad, and a second piece, which Elias deemed the "materials area".  Here we would sit our vinegar, baking soda, and water to wash out the rocket between uses.

I vaguely recalled putting the soda in a piece of tissue, but I thought we may be able to bypass this part of the procedure.  Instead, we put vinegar into the body, dropped some soda on top, put the bottom on quickly, and set it on the launch pad.  We got the necessary chemical reaction, but experienced a failure to launch.

After several failed attempts, I decided to incorporate the use of the tissue.  The idea is that you put the vinegar in the rocket first, put the baking soda in the tissue in the end of the rocket, and then attach the bottom of the rocket.  Since this is all done with the rocket inverted, the chemical reaction does not begin to take place until you turn the rocket over.

This was an improvement, but apparently was not the key to the whole process.  It was at this point I gave up on memory, and decided to go to the source.  One of the things I had tossed out was the book to the chemistry set.  So we headed to the trash can.  Asher was thrilled at the prospect that daddy had joined the ranks of those who "dumpster dive".

I quickly located the instructions for the rocket.  Instead of baking soda and vinegar, the prescribed fuel was baking soda, citric acid, and water.  We returned to the trash can to dumpster dive for the citric acid, which we found.  While diving, we retrieved the rest of the dry chemicals from the set, thinking they would come in handy for other experiments found in the book.

The next attempt with the correct procedure again failed, but we were clearly on the right track.  Then came the second attempt, the moment we had been anticipating for the last half hour.  We achieved lift off.  It shot, literally, every bit of 4 inches off the pad. Elias, obviously unimpressed and thinking that perhaps the failure was in my ability to recall its performance, assumed this was par for the course, and commented "What exactly do you remember about this rocket, Daddy?"  

I pressed on in the midst of Elias's doubt, and we did in fact achieve two launches of about 20' each.

There were many more treasures in my folk's attic, hopefully with stories to follow.

Father and Daughters

A couple of weeks ago, the girls and I went to a father/daughter dance.  This was our second year in something that has now become an annual tradition.  The dance is put on by Mt. Olivet United Methodist Church in Seaford, DE.  They take pictures when you first get there and charge $5.  The whole night cost us $20, and included refreshments.

The way we found out about the dance is interesting.  Our girls take ballet lessons from Mrs. Maubra Jane Randolph of Seaford Dance Center.  I often take the girls and sit in the waiting room while they dance.  Another father is also frequently there, and over time, we developed a friendship.  He invited us to attend the dance last year.  Little did he know it provided a needed respite in the midst of crisis.

We discovered that my dancing had not improved much. Well, not at all.

Sarah, Brent, & Katherine

For those women interested... Flowers and wraps by Tina.